Gotta Start Somewhere
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Daryl just started work at the bar and doesn't expect that he'll have to be trained. He doesn't realize, either, how much he'll need the training. But he has to start somewhere.
**AN: This goes with the request for "bartender and bartender in training."**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Listen—some asshole wants a beer, I get him a beer," Daryl said. "Wants a shot of whisky? I get him that too. I got the idea of the whole thing. I've been drinking since before it was legal and I've certainly put in more than my time around drunks."

"It's not about just serving the drinks," the man said, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. "It's about _serving_ the clients. It's about—giving them what they want. And what they want is drinks, but they also want you to make 'em feel like they're welcome gettin' those drinks. Like you want 'em to have _more_ drinks. And like—their drunken _happiness_ is the reason that you get your sorry ass outta bed in the morning. You follow?"

Daryl groaned to himself.

Rock—that's what everyone called the man. It could be because he was a quite muscular individual. It could also be because he had moments where it seemed like the spot where his brain was supposed to be was occupied by nothing more than a rock. Daryl hadn't asked anyone where the nickname had come from.

He was new in town. Brand new. His brother, at this moment, was out finding them somewhere to live so they didn't spend another night sleeping on top of one another in the truck. They were close, but everything had its limits.

And this little roadside bar? It was the only place in the piece of shit town that was hiring right now—at least if you didn't know anybody that could pull strings for you. And Daryl had never known anyone that would pull strings for him.

Money was money. He could push drinks if he had to. Hell, he could dig ditches if that's what he had to do.

So he'd jumped on the bartending job when Rock had told him, that afternoon, that if he wanted it the position was his. What he hadn't counted on, though, was that Rock was going to make him spend the evening "training" which meant that he wouldn't carry out a full night's pay tonight.

But beggars couldn't be choosers. Daryl sucked his teeth, but he nodded and offered his hand out to Rock for the man to shake on his new employment.

"I follow," Daryl said, "but I still think it'd be better to have us both servin' the whole time instead of having me follow this guy around."

Rock looked at him, smirked, and sucked his teeth around the toothpick that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his mouth.

"I don't think you're gonna have too many complaints about followin' Carol around all night," Rock said. "Don't nobody else..."

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Daryl watched as Carol quickly put three shot glasses onto the bar like she was dealing them. In a quick swipe across the tops of them, she poured whisky into the glasses. Two bottled beers followed that and she popped the tops off them quickly and lined them up.

"Where you want me to take 'em?" Daryl asked. He'd been following her pretty well up to now, but he was lost on the latest order. The place had been slow for most of the evening—but it was starting to pick up now.

"Nowhere," Carol said. "Jim and Walter just got in." She gestured to two men, both of them looking like a shower was in order before too long, who were making their way through the bar and shaking hands with a couple of people as they went. "They always sit at the bar. Walter always wants two beers to start. He'll drink the first before you can get the top off the second if you don't line them up. Jim—he's tricky. Bad night? And he's going to drink vodka. Straight. Good night? Whisky. It's a good night because he's smiling—greeting everyone. Bad night and he comes straight to the bar without speaking. Three shots to start. He'll chase with beer the rest of the night—unless he finds a girl he's interested in. Then it's whisky and water to match her drinks. He thinks he's staying ahead of her. What he doesn't know is you water her drinks down too."

Daryl stared at the woman in front of him.

"You water down people's drinks?" He asked.

"When I'm making sure she's got more decision making ability than he does? I do," Carol confirmed. She nodded her head in another direction. "Heads up—poker players play better when the beer doesn't run out. They tip better too, and table six is starting to look dry. I just saw the second empty mug go down."

Daryl glanced in the direction of the card players that were concentrating on giving themselves lung cancer. He hadn't even seen her look in that direction, but as soon as he glanced over there he got a friendly wave from one of the men that then gestured at his mug before he raised it for Daryl to see that he'd drained it.

"What were they..." he started.

"Tap," Carol said before he could finish, already fixing some other drink for someone whose order she'd no doubt memorized. "Cheapest there is. They'll drink all night if you keep them coming."

Daryl lined mugs up on one of the trays and started to fill them to take another round to the table. Before he could finish, Carol was off again with another tray, loudly declaring how happy she was to see one somebody or another. He watched her, for just a second, as she sashayed away from him.

No wonder she was so damn skinny. For a hole in the wall honky tonk, the place was crawling and she didn't stop for a minute. But her tip jar, he couldn't help but notice, seemed to reflect the effort that she put into her position.

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"You almost done in here?" Carol asked. Her voice surprised Daryl to the point that he involuntarily jumped and nearly dropped the shot glass that he was drying. He flipped the glass and put it upside down in a line with all the others that had come before it.

He wasn't sure if it was really just part of the rotation, as Carol said it was, or if he'd been banished to washing dishes because he simply couldn't keep up with her. Regardless of the reason, though, he'd spent at least the last two hours just elbow deep in hot water.

"Last one," he said, picking up the final beer mug that waited on him.

"Hurry it up," Carol said. "It's time to lock up and I can't leave until you do. I've got the keys."

Daryl nodded, hummed at her, and finished washing the beer mug. When it was clean and rinsed, he flipped it upside down its place and dried his hands.

"Done," he said.

"Then let's head out," Carol responded.

Before he could say anything, one way or another, Carol walked off and started out of the bar with her purse over her shoulder. Daryl followed her. Near the door, Carol gestured for him to go out so he did. He waited, just outside the door for her, as she turned everything off. Then he stood to the side and waited while she locked the door.

Outside, the parking lot was empty now besides a half-rusted and puke green station wagon that he assumed she was driving. It was dark and everyone was gone home. These were the hours when the old folks around would say that no decent person had any business being out—yet here they were.

"Where's your car?" Carol asked.

"Merle's got it," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him.

"Your boyfriend?" Carol asked coyly, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet—feet that were surely killing her by now.

Daryl snorted.

"My damn brother," he said. "Was supposed to be here by now."

"I could give you a ride," Carol offered.

Daryl bit his own tongue. He wasn't going to respond with the knee jerk response that his brain offered him—that wasn't the kind of ride she was offering. Though he wouldn't have turned that one down. Daryl reached in his pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes. He shook his head at her.

"You could," he said. "Except—he was supposed to be findin' us a place to stay. So I don't got no damn clue where you'd be takin' me."

Carol looked around them in the darkness.

"You're sure he's coming?" She asked.

"Merle'll be here," Daryl said. "He might not never be on time, but he'll show."

"I'll wait with you, then," Carol said.

Daryl lit the cigarette he retrieved for himself and shook another loose from the pack to offer her. She looked at it, started to shake her head, and then muttered a "what the hell" that was followed by her acceptance of the cigarette. She accepted the light as well when he offered it to her.

"Don't gotta wait," he said. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will," Carol said. "But—I'll wait, just the same."

She reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of cash. While she was standing there, she flicked quickly through the bills once and then through a second time. She stopped halfway through the pile, separated out the money, and then she offered the cash to Daryl. He waved it away.

"Rock said I don't make tips while training," he said. "Besides—you done most of it. That's your money."

"And I know you don't make shit if you don't make tips," Carol responded. She pushed the money at him. "I can't serve the drinks if the glasses aren't washed."

Daryl took the money. He didn't like the idea of taking what he felt was really her money, but he also knew that he and Merle were getting by at the moment with change they got out of the truck seats and floorboards. He couldn't be too proud.

"You do this by yourself?" Daryl asked. "Every night?"

Carol shook her head.

"My roommate works here too," she said. "She trained me. Took me in a couple of years ago. When I needed it. Got me on my feet again."

"Where's she?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed.

"Sleeping, I hope," Carol said. "It was her night off."

"If the two of you's working here, what'cha need another person for?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled at him.

"Can't serve the drinks if the glasses aren't clean," Carol said. "We switch off, but it would be easier with two on the floor and one in the back at night. Could mean less wait—more moving people in and out. Pushing more drinks. More tips in the jar."

"Yeah, but split three ways," Daryl said. "Don't think speedin' shit up can make you that much more."

Carol hummed.

"But we wanted a man working here too," Carol said. "That's why you got the job. Rock wouldn't have hired you if you were a woman."

"Need a man?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded.

"Things get out of hand sometimes. Drunks get out of hand. We're here alone, almost every night, until the town starts to shut the lights off," Carol said. "Wouldn't hurt to have just a little bit of—insurance?"

Daryl nodded, but then he licked his lips.

"You oughta tell Rock I weren't no good," he said. "Man or not—I didn't do shit in there but fuck things up."

Carol smiled at him.

"And the first night I worked here?" She said. "I dropped three trays and accidentally elbowed a customer in the face."

Daryl laughed to himself. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why the hell you defending me?" He asked, not sure he really believed her story of clumsy first-night failure.

Carol shrugged and waved her hand toward the road.

"Is that your brother?" She asked.

Daryl glanced in the direction just in time to see Merle pulling in. The rattling of the truck, if he hadn't looked up, would have given away his brother's arrival before a moment had passed.

"That's him," Daryl said.

"Then I guess it's time for me to go," Carol said. "Don't be too hard on yourself. Everybody has a bad first night. And—usually a bad second one too. See you tomorrow."

She started to walk off, before Daryl could even fully straighten himself up from the position that he'd taken leaning against the brick wall, and he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She turned back, almost on the defense, and Daryl quickly moved his hand. He couldn't help but wonder, for just a second, what it was about the action that brought such a look into her eyes—but he didn't ask her.

"You never did answer my question," Daryl said. "About—why you'd be defendin' me when you could find some damn body that was better to work here."

Carol smiled at him.

"I like you," she said. "And—everybody's gotta start somewhere."

She continued walking forward then. She waved at Merle who waved back at her, though he didn't know her from a man in the moon, and Daryl stood right where he was and watched as she unlocked the door to the puke green car. She opened it and stood by the car a second before Daryl started to move toward the truck.

"Go ahead and get your ass in," he called to her. "Gonna make sure that shit cranks for we leave. Might as well do what the hell you hired me for."

Carol laughed.

"It's a start," she responded. "See you tomorrow. Goodnight, Daryl."

He waved a goodnight at her and watched her get into the car. He heard the door slam hard. And then he waited to hear the engine come to life after a brief struggle to try to give up and die. When Carol had finally backed out of her spot, very little care needed in the almost abandoned lot, and was pulling out, Daryl finally got into the truck with Merle.

Merle watched, just like Daryl, as the woman drove away and then Daryl offered the cash over to Merle.

"Nice damn haul for a night," Merle said. "And that lil' damn kitten ain't too bad to look at neither." Daryl's older brother laughed to himself at some, no doubt, inappropriate thought that he was about to share with Daryl. Then he opened his mouth to do just that. "You—uh—workin' you up somethin' more'n a paycheck, lil' brother?" Merle asked.

Daryl laughed to himself and shook his head.

 _But then, everything had to start somewhere._


End file.
